Tea in five stages
by Argent
Summary: Pam drinks tea - in the past, present and future


tea - in five stages

by: argentlife

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/in memoriam/

Disclaimer:

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Please be gentle - newbie here, pretty pretty, please with Jim on top?

1.

After the break up, when the dust has settled in empty spaces on the floor she uses it for the first time.

She spent her day, in between taking calls, reading – chaneling all sources. She wants to take her time, to make it right, . The tea leaves, rhubarb cream selected at the gourmet shop hidden away just outside the mall, are waiting, measured exactly.

It's science. The sun always rises, one plus one equals two and nothing ever changes.

(Everything)

The water comes to a boil, the sound out of sync with her world. It rocks her, leaning against the sink, lost in the darkness.

She makes the tea, follows every direction. Lets it simmer for seven minutes.

It is only after the first sip that she feels the salt against her cheeks.

2.

She walks on coal and she can't stand the heat. She soaks her feet in water, slathers them in cream and as a final remembrance she paints her nails with fire.

The next day she is walking (oh so carefully) out of the grocery store when she sees the advert. In her mind she balances her check book and she can't – not really, but it's a new day – a new her.

Back home in front of the mirror she watches her reflection. It's different; it's straight and its horrible.

She pours herself another cup of tea and she watches herself again.

The smile lurks in the corner of her lips.

Free.

3.

In the end it is nothing like she expected it to be.

Her hands are coloured in paint, violent red and calm yellow. Her eyes are tired and she knows that the hairbrush lying on her bathroom sink would probably come in handy, but it doesn't matter.

She is making breakfast.

For him.

In bed.

She knows he prefers coffee in the morning, black on black – so strong she sometimes can taste it on his lips just before lunch. (She knows that the touch of her lips against his skin makes him shiver)

It's Saturday though, so she forgoes the coffee, reaches for the tea hidden in the cupboard.

The water boils and she pours it into the pot. Watch the colour on her hands clash with the ceramic green.

It fits.

4.

It's four o´clock in the morning.

She can hear the front door creak open, the sounds of someone entering – someone that just might not want to be found out. She's seated at the kitchen table, mug in hand, and in the end it's not that hard to catch the attention of her wayward daughter.

A small "in here" later her daughter stands in the doorway, her father's sheepish grin on her face, her eyes swollen with tears.

She is a mother, but most of all she is a woman and as such she can spot heartache from just about a mile away so she rises and instead of a lecture she takes out another cup, motioning for her daughter to take a seat.

With both hands she lifts the tattered old pot and fills the second cup

They sit like that, easy, talking, teary - until they hear the house creek, one husband/father starting his day, a son/brother rushing towards breakfast.

They don't mention the early morning hours - instead they (mother and daughter) wait silently for the day to begin anew, the sounds of their family surrounding them.

5.

Her hands are old and wrinkled now, slow but still steady, covered in paint splashes that never really wears of.

It usually makes her smile.

They are occupied now – carefully smoothing down the covers of their - her bed, making sure to stretch the corners. She bought new linens yesterday, ironed them this morning.

(Before)

The room around her is calm, the voices down stairs not quite reaching through the floor. She sneaked away the first chance she got, barricaded herself in the bedroom, found menial tasks to perform.

She finds it hidden in the farthest reaches of his wardrobe, barley held together it is what finally breaks her. She had thought it lost for years now, mourned it in her own special way, refusing painstakingly to buy a new one – even as much consider the ones he used to show her.

Like a child she clutches it to her, snivelling, crying, wailing into an empty room.

(Gone)

After the crowds break up, when the dust had settled in empty spaces on the floor she uses it for one last time.

In memoriam.


End file.
